


The Secret War

by KodiakAttack



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Anxiety, Character Development, Darkwolves, Depression, Drem'lok the Bloodwolf, Nazkura Darkwolf - Freeform, No Romance, No Smut, Orcs, Shamanism, Trauma, War, War of the Thorns | Burning of Teldrassil, Warcraft - Freeform, World of Warcraft: Battle for Azeroth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22167073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KodiakAttack/pseuds/KodiakAttack
Summary: This is also on FanFiction.net and Tumblr!https://nazkura.tumblr.com/post/190026733755/secret-war-prologuehttps://www.fanfiction.net/s/13470103/1/The-Secret-War





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is also on FanFiction.net and Tumblr!  
> https://nazkura.tumblr.com/post/190026733755/secret-war-prologue  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13470103/1/The-Secret-War

THE RIDE TO SAURFANG’S WARHOST was not an easy one; nay, Nazkura could not calm her restless mind. She had been unsure of this coming secret campaign, but having her two closest Fangwardens and comrades, Gro'kar and Drem'lok, alongide her put her a bit more at ease... though they all looked up to Saurfang. Why wasn't that enough to be confident?

Her fears were confirmed when the Warchief’s messenger arrived and Saurfang lifted his ax, his voice booming over the soldiers: “Soldiers of the Horde, ready your blades! Today, we march on the Kaldorei!” As the warhost marched, Nazkura’s heart ached, anxiety itched at her skin… she could not bring herself to believe in this campaign. She hung back from out of the way of the warhost as they began to march -- trying to reconcile with herself.

Scarcely an hour had passed before Drem'lok closed some of the distance between him and Nazkura, announcing his presence with a grunt before speaking with a hushed tone. "You bear the look of one nervous about the fight ahead - I had seen it plenty of faces before, but not on yours since we fought Nahmentok's cultists. What troubles you, Warlord?"

Nazkura did not respond right away; her mind still distant and preoccupied. Gro’kar rode just as tightly as she began to speak her mind. “This aggression concerns me,” she said, motioning to the warhost. “I’ve heard others speak on it; they can only be excited at the prospect of whatever resistance we’ll face. But I had hoped the Horde’s wars were over,” she looked between her two warriors, hoping for justification or equal concerns.

Gro’kar was the first to speak, ever his personality. “I believe in Saurfang,” he said, confidence and admiration dripping from his voice. “He won’t lead us astray… his words to Garrosh in Northrend still echo among those who were among them. He would not let the Horde fall into the depravity he experienced in the First and Second War… not again.”

Drem'lok kept quiet as he let Nazkura and Gro'kar voice their thoughts, a slow nod offered in response as he looked about the surrounding savannah. "The Horde was born into war, and for one reason or another, has never been without it. But this campaign..." He trailed off for a moment, looking back to the other two. "The Night Elves keep their army in Silithus, leaving their forests open. We have the chance to push them out of the war and ensure they are no longer a threat since they've been within spitting distance of Orgrimmar since Garrosh's reign."

The strategic logic was sound, Nazkura knew; perhaps there was merit in Drem'lok's words. Gro'kar's confidence in Saurfang renewed her vigor, somewhat, but still, she could not shake her uneasiness. "Let us hope that Saurfang's appointed lieutenants keep the reins tight; despite the tactical advantage to pressing against a weakened front so close to Orgrimmar, I... worry about what will happen if we unleash ourselves." She took in a long breath.

"Come," she said after another moment of silence. "Let us push with the other outriders and show these Hordelings how the Darkwolves ride wargs."

"Saurfang knows the horrors wrought by war - by the Horde. He will keep the younger warriors in line." Drem'lok grunted, offering what he likely hoped would be a reassuring nod before joining Nazkura and Gro'kar in pushing ahead

***

By the time Saurfang’s Warhost arrived at Astranaar, it was burning. The buildings were naught, but blackened, charred ruins and corpses littered the ground. Nazkura had seen conquest before; she'd seen the results of a devastating siege. This battlefield was neither of those.

It was a slaughterhouse.

The Horde saboteurs had not distinguished from soldier or civilian; they had butchered their way through this outpost. They had run of these lanes with no commanding officer to stop them and no real opposition among the Kaldorei to keep them occupied; thus, their wanton lust for blood starved until everyone had been dying or fleeing.

The Darkwolves joined the rearguard as the warhost moved on, much to Drem’lok’s displeasure. Nazkura, however, needed to take the carnage in and ensure both Drem’lok and Gro’kar took it in all the same. “What say you to this?” Nazkura asked her Fangwardens.

There was no response from either of them at first; they stayed atop their wargs: Gro’kar overlooked the carnage, giving death glares to nearby soldiers, though Drem’lok saved his glare for Nazkura -- as if her question had more sting than she intended.

“Are you sure of our campaign now, Reaver-Captain? Of Saurfang?” Nazkura snarled out, her tone apoplectic, her crimson gaze blurring from anger, but she was just as unsure as before; doubt gripped her, and she saw uncertainty gripping Gro’kar. “We fought against this before -- when Garrosh ruled. These crimes…” she said, looking down at one of the dead Elves, “... they’re the same as before.”

Gro’kar turned away -- shame clear on his face. He shook his head, denying to himself the grief he felt, the disgrace that Gro'kar had felt before returning; Drem’lok looked just as uneasy, but he gave voice to his mind:

Drem'lok's glare remained upon Nazkura as she pointed out the crimes of the past, but rather than raise his voice to protest, he instead dismounted his warg and approached one of the fallen elves, his piercing gaze falling to their crumpled form. "I was in Ashenvale when the Night Elves first ambushed the Warsong Clan and witnessed firsthand the savagery of their warriors as they slaughtered countless of our number at the command of Cenarius."

Drem'lok turned back to Nazkura, that glare once again focusing on her as he spoke. "They spared us none of their wrath then, nor have they since. They do not deserve to be spared ours." He said, a low growl escaping him as he walked back over to his warg and climbed atop it. "We must go - the warhost will not hesitate to leave us behind."

Nazkura did not argue with Drem’lok -- instead, she turned away from him as she ushered Eyota, her warg, towards the edge of the burning town. Every fiber of her being tore at her, her loyalty to the Horde shattered, she battled within herself.

“They suffered in the end,” a raspy voice spoke, breaking her mile-long trance. She turned toward where the sound came from: a Forsaken, clad in leathers, and bearing the weeping mask of the Banshee Queen. The Forsaken drew a wicked dagger, curved and positively dripping with poison. She spun it casually in her hand. “As they all will, Warlord. As long as our Queen demands it.”

A loud snarl came from her lips, gnashing of her teeth in warning to the Deathstalker. “Leave me be, corpse,” she sneered as she pushed Eyota towards the path to follow the warhost. Drem’lok and Gro’kar kept their distance but followed just behind, yet the Deathstalker kept up with her.

“Your words are tantamount to treason,” she spoke in a hushed tone. “You’re emotional, I understand, but I would be wary of your words around… certain company.” She returned Nazkura’s glare, dim yellow eyes narrowing. “No one will hear anything past this point… but some might be watching you from here on out.”

The threat was not lost on Nazkura, but she flicked her gaze forward. “And who might be watching me, corpse? My loyalty to the Horde is…” she trailed off for just a moment before giving a firm if feigned, nod, “... absolute.” It was a struggle even to say the word -- it had nearly stuck in her throat.

“Velariene Plaguefang,” the Deathstalker responded. “But corpse will be fine if you’d like. But do take my warning seriously… otherwise, who might know what will happen to your people, hm?” Velariene let her words linger a moment in silence before kicked her horse forward -- riding off.

***

The fighting was thick after they broke through the wisp barrier; Saurfang’s warhost took meter by bloody meter away from the Kaldorei at the Darkshore. Nazkura and the Darkwolves finally found themselves on the frontlines despite their doubts or perhaps in spite of them. Each of them worked in conjunction with each other, near-perfect harmony of attack and defense as the three comrades fought together.

They went days without rest, drinking deeply into the Duskwitches’ dark concoctions that let them stay fighting under such duress and allowed for an increased vigor in combat. None of them were timorous despite the horror they had seen at Astranaar, each of them put it in the back of their minds. Each of them believed in their self-control, now.

They had to.

The Darkwolves were assigned to a cohort of outriders to mop up scattered groups of Elves and Gilneans. Alongside them rode a coterie of dastardly, cruel warriors -- including Velariene and several of her ill-born ilk of Deathstalkers. Each time they rode down fleeing warriors, Nazkura’s stomach would turn -- a disgusting knot roiling within her.

It wasn’t until they found refugee camps that she had done something; that the genuinely twisted vision of this campaign was coming to fruition. As the Darkwolves fought against Gilnean footguard and Kaldorei sentinels desperately attempting to hold them back while civilians fled, the Coterie struck; they rode down men, women, and children innocent from this conflict.

Nazkura broke away from her brethren as she saw two riders hone in on a family of five. The two outriders raised their wicked swords high as they closed in, laughing fiendishly until the lead rider felt the air around him heat up. It was only a second after he looked in Nazkura’s direction that he felt a burst of lava hit his chest, burning him and sending him off balance from his warg. He fell, his ribbing cracking as he hit the ground -- still alive, but hurt.

The second rider, a Troll, wheeled his warg around and charged at Nazkura intent on doing to her what he intended for the Elves. As he drew closer, she slammed her feet on the ground and twisted them; the earth beneath the rider and his warg responded in kind, lifting them both off the soil suddenly, flinging them into the air. The warg slammed against a tree, its spine snapping and killing it while the Troll hit the ground, not too far away.

The warshaman returned her attention to the first rider, gripping her axes tightly. He had recovered, somewhat, from being thrown from his warg. He was still stunned -- attempting to process what had happened and only barely managed to react to the first of Nazkura’s furious assault on him. The Orc felt a heated fury in her axes, emblazoned with fire as she struck again and again. The first attack he managed to glance away, but the second and third attack hit secure spots on his armor. He reached for his shield in desperation, but soon found himself without a hand -- and then a head. He fell to the ground, unable to withstand her assault.

Behind her, she heard a wild battle cry -- she turned, seeing that the Troll rose far quicker than she had anticipated. With wicked sword and dagger in his hand, he shoulder-checked her and sent her backward, managing to find chinks in her armor. He cut through it, exploiting such weakness with his blade. She cried out in pain, roaring as she covered, earth covering her feet and ankles to provide a solid anchor. She bent down at her knees, letting her axes such the ground and sent it to the awaiting Troll, shocking him earthen magics.

He fell to the ground from such a force, and an ax was found in his belly soon after. He lay there, bleeding and crying in agony. It wasn’t Nazkura’s ax, however -- it was Gro’kar’s. Nazkura acknowledged and gave thanks to Gro’kar with a nod, to which he returned the same.

Soon after, Drem'lok burst through the treeline - he had been separated from the rest of the Darkwolves earlier in the fight by a group of Kaldorei Sentinels. He was without his wolf and had gained two arrows embedded in his flesh and a spattering of blood across his form, though the warrior paid little mind to his wounds as he beheld the sight before him. "Nazkura, wha-" He trailed off for a moment, flicking his gaze down toward the fallen Horde warriors, then to the bloodied weapons of those who had slain them.

"These were Horde soldiers! Have you both gone mad?" He shouted, grip tightening on his weapon as he approached the two other Darkwolves.

She stood staunch in her decision like a mountain withstanding a wave. "These two were riding down civilians, Drem," she said, all pretense of title wilting away. "And other outriders among us have done the same. We're killing refugees!" She said, spitting out some black blood. "I've had enough. Our dream of the Horde, Thrall's dream... it's gone. We," she pointed to herself then Drem'lok then Gro'kar, "... have been betrayed. This is the Horde's legacy we're creating, and it's all that it's ever been." She moved between the fallen, soldier and civilian alike.

She huffed, sheathing her axes on her hips. "I'm leaving the warhost. I can't be an accomplice his this... slaughter." She whistled sharply -- Eyota coming up to her.

A huff was all that Drem'lok responded with initially, the mention of the slain soldiers riding down civilians drawing his attention down to their corpses for a short time as if weighing the claim against what he saw of them. Though as Nazkura stated her intention aloud, Drem'lok shot his gaze back to her. Silence followed for a short time, the sound of distant battle echoing in the forest around them.

That is until Drem'lok spoke. "It is no betrayal. You said it yourself - this is  _ our _ legacy." He said, a heavy grunt following as he took a step closer to the Warshaman, then another. "If this is your path, know that you'll be hunted every step of the way - both of you." He gestured to Gro'kar, then back to Nazkura. "You've my silence, rest assured. But the Banshee Queen has agents everywhere."

Nazkura swung her leg over Eyota, mounting her and gripping the reins -- Gro'kar did the same. The Fangwarden gave a nod towards Drem'lok before looking to Nazkura. "Come, before the Coterie finds us."

She gave a last look to Drem'lok, bowing her head in respect. "Lok'tar Ogar, Overlord. We shall see each other again -- take care of the Darkwolves in my absence." She turned, the request clear -- both Gro'kar and Nazkura riding off before the Coterie could find them.

Drem'lok offered a nod in return to both of the Darkwolves as they climbed atop their wolves, the warrior watching the forest beyond them intently in case the Coterie spotted them.

Still, as Nazkura addressed him, Drem'lok regarded her with a single, final nod. "Lok'tar Ogar, Darkwolves. Watch your backs." He said, a pained grunt escaping him as he reached up to snap the arrows piercing his flesh and return to the battle for Kalimdor.

***

An hour later, Gro’kar and Nazkura were racing through the thick forests of the Darkshore. They managed to find some Highborne ruins from yesteryear, allowing their mounts to drink from the waters there. As their mounts watered, Gro’kar spoke:

“We’re being followed,” he said confidently, looking back. “Velariene and her Coterie. They must know we’ve gone.” He had his ax unsheathed already as if they were already on them. “I picked up the scent not ten minutes ago when the wind shifted.

Nazkura knelt at the water’s edge, dipping her drinking skin into it. “Are you sure it’s not Elves?”

Gro’kar shook his head. “Smells of death. Ichor. You can’t smell Elves while they’re in their forest.” He moved toward the edge of the ruins, peering out into the forest.

“Do you think Drem’lok…?” She trailed off, capping her drinking skin.

“No. He wouldn’t. He would never betray us.”

_ Not like we did him, _ Nazkura thought. She dipped her axes into the water, cleaning off the gore that stained them -- black and red blood both dissipating into the water. “Can we outride them?”

Gro’kar took a long moment to consider her words before nodding. “One of us can,” he said, approaching Nazkura. He picked her up and put his Warlord onto Eyota. “I will stay behind and face them. Slow them down. You must disappear.”

Nazkura’s heart felt heavy as she was lifted onto her mount. “You can’t -- I won’t let you stand alone.”

He gave her a half-hearted laugh. “You’ll allow me this death. I cannot live with this shame -- I cannot make up for it. But you might be able to… You’ll be able to avenge me and those who fought fruitlessly for our dream. Think of your daughter...” He turned back to Nazkura. “This is a good death, fighting for a loved one. Better than… better than fighting for the Horde.”

“You were a good friend, Gro’kar,” she said, fighting back tears as she gripped Eyota’s reins. “I shall not forget you.” She kicked Eyota’s hind -- whisking her away before Gro’kar could respond.

As she disappeared into the forest, Gro’kar turned in the other direction. He unstrapped his plate armor, baring himself to his oncoming attackers. He gripped a vial of viscous fluid, one of Mazawa’s tinctures, and coated his ax with it. He then sat and reflected, channeling his ancestors before him.

The Coterie arrived a half-hour later; they had extra outriders with them. They stood ten meters in front of him, a dozen outriders all staring him down. Gro’kar glared at the smirking Velariene before looking at the rest of her compatriots and found one Warsong Orc he recognized.

“You,” he said, pointing his ax at the Orc. “You were among the Warsong, once -- you drank from the poison well… and joined Garrosh’s Kor’kron after you were purged.” Anger swelled within his stomach as he remembered this Orc’s life among the Horde. His gaze flicked to Velariene. “I’ll wipe that smirk off your face. Come then; let’s see this done.”

There were no other words -- several warriors charged at him. Each was shouting their battle-cries, but Gro’kar did not yet have words. He met the first attacker’s blade with his ax, glancing it off to the side before flicking the edge of his ax at the attacker’s exposed neck. As he nicked the Troll’s throat, he turned and side-stepped an oncoming spear -- he brought his fist down on the head of it, breaking and spinning the spearhead, catching it. He made several sweeping steps backward, spearhead and ax in hand.

Three more came at him, and three more fell to his onslaught. One misstepped, and Gro’kar buried an ax into his side. The ax slipped from his fingers, but he unsheathed his knife and managed to parry the next blow, but felt cold steel in his back from the third attacker. He spun around, sending his dagger into the attacker’s throat and throwing his broken spearhead at the remaining attacker -- piercing his eye.

He breathed heavily, turning back towards the remaining Coterie and what enemies he had felled. Five lay on the ground, at least three of them dead. He spits up black blood, feeling it gush on his back. “I haven’t got all day,” he said, his vision blurring somewhat. “I’ll be dying soon, and I intend to bring more of you with me.” He found his ax, picking it up and finishing off the Warsong Orc he had felled.

The Coterie of Deathstalkers approached him from all angles -- six of them in total with Velariene staying behind, bow in hand. They closed in like sharks, circling him, but when they struck, it was blazingly fast.

The first moved in from the front, sprinting forward and feigned an attack -- which Gro’kar did not fall for; no, it was the second attacker that had the real attack -- right behind him. He swiveled on his feet, bringing his ax down hard before those daggers reached for him, cleaving the Forsaken’s skull in two.

Two more approached him from either side; he managed to swing his ax wildly to ward off one, but he felt a poisoned dagger slide between his ribs. He brought his elbow down hard on the attacker’s wrist, snapping it, and then sent his fist into the attacker’s jaw. He heard bones creak and crack, teeth flying out and hitting the stone ruins that surrounded them.

He was beginning to slow as he narrowly dodged another dagger aimed at his neck; it hit his face instead. He snarled out a curse as he threw the gripped the Forsaken’s body, slamming it onto the ground and burying his ax into the newly made corpse.

As he rose, he felt several quick stabs into his back -- one of the rogues managed to sneak up behind him. After the seventh or so stab, he reached back, finding purchase on the Forsaken’s arm and threw him toward Velariene. He fell to his hands and knees, beginning to bleed out.

His vision was starting to fail -- the blackness was taking him. He crawled forward, chest heaving as black blood fell from his mouth; he heard a confident, raspy voice above him. “She’ll suffer in the end,” Velariene said, her voice dripping with satisfaction; he could hear the smirk on her face.

As his vision clouded, his hands found a blade -- the broken spearhead from before. He gripped it and, with one final gasp of life left, stood. He swiped upwards, roaring his defiance, and swept the spearhead across Velariene’s face. She cried out in pain, her wicked dagger sweeping across Gro’kar’s throat.

He fell onto his back, satisfied -- dying moments later in a pool of his black blood. He was unsure how many fell to him, but he knew it was enough; in his final moment, he heard Velariene telling her remaining Coterie to fall back to the Horde camp, hours away from here.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also on FanFiction.net and Tumblr!  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13470103/2/The-Secret-War  
> https://nazkura.tumblr.com/post/190059635090/secret-war-chapter-1

Nazkura had not stopped riding through the forest since parting with Gro’kar. Although her heart was still heavy with grief, she needed to press on; she could not, she would not let Gro’kar’s death be in vain. She had to outrun Velariene’s Coterie, survive and make it back to…

Where was it that she was going?

She paused to gain her bearings, but it was only then that she felt fatigue beginning to grip her. She slept for only a few hours a night, and it weighed on her immensely; her mount, Eyota, was starting to wane and slow. She took out some of her rations, feeding Eyota some dried meat and giving her some well-deserved water.

Looking around, she knew that she barely recognized the locale: Nazkura knew they were somewhere in the southern part of the Darkshore and that she had not yet reached Ashenvale. Gro’kar and her had managed to ride around the swirling whirlpool in the north and that she kept along the river’s edge since they parted.

Her mind was too addled -- she needed to focus. She rummaged through her saddles, finding some incense. She placed them both into the ground deliberately, placing her fingers on the ends of each and rubbing -- mumbling words of power and calling her patron spirit, Brother Fire, to give her but sparks to light them. He responded in kind and burned the ends aflame only enough to allow the scent to permeate from them.

She sat down, cross-legged, and placed her hands palm up on her knees. The spell she was casting, Far Sight, requires her to utterly devoid of everything so that she might expand her mind to the smallest of details around her. Those little details would create a larger picture and spirit willing, a vision of an entire area around her.

Closing her eyes and breathing deeply, She attempted to clear her mind of all doubt and uncertainty. Each deep breath she took quieted her mind as the incense entered her lungs; the magical fragrance began to enhance her senses in the world around her. She heard the snapping of twigs, the rustling of bushes, the nearby cyclone --

Her mind jolted; she had a vision over the region nearby. She saw the cyclone -- the Eye of the Vortex they called it -- that the warhost had to avoid on their way up here. She used that vision as an anchor point, calling Sister Air to grant her more sight from that point. Her bond to Nazkura granted such a request, showing her the lanes from which the warhost were using, and the nearby Elven remnants used to mask their movements.

Ruins; that’s what she saw just a few kilometers south of her. She focused on them, seeing the blurry vision of corpses on the ground and the nearby wisps angrily reacting to the carnage of the battle. She called out to Sister Air, her mind pleading.

_ What is this place, Flurris? What are these ruins? _ Her Kalimag words carried slowly over the wind, the foreign tongue having not been practiced much in the preceding year.

It took a few moments for Sister Air to respond; Nazkura kept her mind sharpened, focused on the ruins while Sister Air deigned to respond. It is an old place, Flurris finally said.  _ The long-dead of the Queen still reside there; the wisps kept guard over it, but they have been disturbed. _

Nazkura began to strain, her far sight blurring immensely.  _ Its name, Flurris _ .  _ What is its name?  _ She could feel the vision slipping, but just as her final glimpse blinked away, Flurris answered.

_ Ameth’aran. _

A gasp of air filled Nazkura’s lungs; she was short of breath as everything came back to her suddenly tenfold. Gro’kar’s death wracked her, her doubts on the Horde caused her to second-guess all that she was doing. She pulled her knees into her chest, curling up into a ball, and fell to the ground. She began to weep, tears stinging her eyes for the first time in a few days since she parted from Gro’kar.

Far Sight was the cause of this, she knew; these intensified feelings she felt were the cost of such a spell. More experienced shaman than she could counter it, but she steadfastly paid the price. Eyota sensed her companion’s heartbreak, her doubt -- the great black warg moved and settled, wrapping her great furred frame around Nazkura to provide some physical comfort to counter the emotional weight.

At some point, she fell asleep -- her fatigue was only amplified by the flooding of her emotions. Curled up against her beloved companion, she rested soundly, though she had visions.

They were blurry; opaque. Nazkura first saw the Darkwolf village in Feralas. She saw the blurred faces of her clanspeople, but the vision did not focus on them. No, it moved through the village to Maz’rinda’s dwelling. She had an intense focus on the ritualistic ornaments outside -- bones of enemies fallen, animal skulls placed atop sharpened stakes, and splayed leathers stretched for curing. Her vision brought her inside where furnishings were scarce, and smoke filled the single room. At the end of the room sat an altar to her homeland’s Loa and there knelt Maz’rinda, giving offerings of fetishes while praying to such Loa.

The vision came and went quickly; a second vision assaulted her mind. This one was painful as it shook and rattled her even as she slept. She saw Gro’kar in his final stand against Velariene and her Coterie -- a dozen faceless specters, save for Velariene herself. The phantoms advanced on Gro’kar, but each attacker he fended off; each wound he took she felt, each cry she saw but could not hear.

The vision was long and replayed three times more. When it faded, a final vision came into view: the warhost on the banks outside Lor’danel. She saw her ever-loyal Overlord, Drem’lok, standing alongside a Mag’har woman emblazoned with Warsong tattoos. They stood upon the beach with other soldiers, waiting for orders until they saw Sylvanas’ confrontation with the dying Kaldorei and Saurfang. Her vision focused on Drem’lok as he saw the catapults not only move up to the edge of the water but fire upon the tree. She saw his horror, anger, and grief fill him, but worst of all she saw his spirit break.

The vision replayed in her mind over and over again; she must have seen it a dozen times before she finally awoke. Her skin was moist was sweat, her breathing heavy as she leaned against Eyota for comfort. Her mind was far more pellucid, her body more-or-less rested, but she was still wracked with guilt and doubt: what should she do now?

She grappled with the problem. There was no doubt that the Horde knew of her betrayal; her vision of Gro’kar’s death had confirmed that suspicion. Her vision of the Darkwolf village was pulling her heart home, to her clan and daughter. Was that the purpose of such a vision?

She stood up, stretching. As she looked to the northwest, she figured it must be the early evening. She saw the setting sun coming over the treetops, painting the sky orange and red. However, when the winded shifted and chilled her slick skin, she smelled smoke. This wasn’t the smoke of war that she had been acquainted with -- no, this was different. She looked up and still yet saw the stars above her.

Her muscles were slow to wake up as she moved slowly through the trees, but she soon saw it was not evening. No, the oranges and reds she saw in the sky were a great bonfire, and Teldrassil was the fuel.

The final vision, which had played over and over in her dreams, had come back to her suddenly. Drem’lok’s reaction -- the Horde mercilessly burning the innocents across Teldrassil. So much death, so easily created at the hands of regular soldiers under the orders of Sylvanas’ solidified regime.

_ I cannot go back, _ she thought to herself as she realization hit her. I am an enemy now; they will kill me, the Darkwolves, my friends, my family -- Velariene’s Coterie will hunt and kill them all if they shelter me. Her thoughts began to race through her mind as she weighed her options.

_ I could turn myself in and face judgment… I know that I would be executed, but that might yet spare the clan.  _ Nazkura was not ashamed of her actions, nor should she be. She lived her life according to her own code of principles, and she stuck to that code of honor. But Gro’kar’s death would be in vain. He would have died for nothing.

No, she couldn’t go back now and submit herself to judgment. That left her with only one feasible option, in her mind:  _ Run. Keep running, keep evading. Until I find a better way, I must keep going. _ A mere bandage upon a gushing wound, but it would buy her time. Perhaps she could flee to the Earthen Ring or the Argent Crusade; they might grant her amnesty and protection.

She turned to Eyota. Her long-standing friend, her beloved companion. She approached the black warg, wrapping her arms around her friend. “You’ve been my companion through thick and thin,” she whispered. “You’ve been with me for too long…” Nazkura looked into Eyota’s blackened eyes, peering deep within her soul.

“You must go back to the Darkwolves, Eyota.” She reasoned within herself that this was the right course of action: she didn’t wish to submit her closest companion to death, and it might throw off the Coterie’s hunt. She took off her surcoat, identifying her allegiance to the Darkwolves and put it in the saddlebags. She took only meager supplies. “Go, Eyota -- take the long paths, circle back, and confuse your trail. But make it back.”

Nazkura kissed Eyota’s snout before she let her go. They had been inseparable since becoming a rider and mount, and it was difficult to part ways now. But for the safety of both, they must. Eyota slowly faded into the forest but not before looking back at Nazkurand whimpering. Nazkura moved south, and half an hour later she heard Eyota’s howl through the woods.

_Ameth’aran,_ she thought to herself. _A few kilometers away._ _That is where I’ll find shelter next._ She moved quickly through the foliage and attempted to cover her tracks as she moved. She called upon Brother Earth and Sister Water to muddy the trail she had been on, Sister Air to clear her scent and whisk it away, and she even took to climbing trees and hopping between them.

Such actions took a toll on her physically and caused her to slow her progress towards the ruins, but a few hours later she managed to get there. It was close to midday: the sun was nearing its zenith, and the stars had long disappeared. The smoke and flames of Teldrassil still loomed at her back, but she tried not to think about the death and destruction that was wrought.

She approached with caution, her eyes sharpened. She saw the angry wisps floating around and the specter dust on the ground from where the old Highborne ghosts had been killed. Each step she took was deliberate, ensuring she did not take out her axes to ensure she did not anger the Elven spirits any more than they already were.

Most of the fallen here were soldiers that had been killed in skirmishes that took place over a week ago. Nazkura rummaged through some of the corpses looking for supplies but found that some of them were recent -- far more recent. There were several Forsaken corpses, clad in leather, that had been scorched. She looked closer and deduced that it was both lightning and flame in origin. She looked around and saw that some of the corpses were killed in an arc.

_ Curious, _ she thought to herself. Her brow became knitted as she followed the corpses to ruin’s eastern edge. She saw one of the Forsaken that stood out among the others. His face had been burned, his limbs charred, but she was able to make out his rank: Deathstalker Captain.

Had they come to stalk her, she wondered? She shook her head -- she had not come this way coming north, and thus they wouldn’t have tracked her to her. She looked around the Captain’s belongings hoping to find orders of some kind, but she came up with nothing.

She huffed, scanning the trees. Scorch marks on the foliage showed that whatever the Deathstalkers were looking for, it came from under cover of the forest. She moved further in, tracking footprints and broken branches. Each step she took brought her closer to the mountains, wading through thick vegetation. She felt a presence nearby -- elemental, shamanistic in origin. There was something off about it, however.

There was no time to think about it further as she saw a clearing to a cave. She stood there only for a moment before she a blunt pain to the back of her head, and her vision fade to black. She had been drawn into a trap; she was sure of it. Velariene had come for her, and this is how she was going to end.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also on FanFiction.net and Tumblr!  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13470103/3/The-Secret-War  
> https://nazkura.tumblr.com/post/190079721545/secret-war-chapter-2

When Nazkura awoke, she could only barely see the campfire in front of her; the edges of her vision were blurred and dark, and she could not move. She struggled for a short moment, feeling the rope that bound her hands and feet were well and tightly knotted. Her mind was addled as she came to; thus she tried to sharpen her mind to her surroundings.

“It is the early morning,” said a hoarse voice. For a moment, Nazkura thought she was at Velariene’s mercy, but when she rolled from her back to her knees and looked up, she saw an Orc. He looked ragged, wearing threadbare robes that might have gone to an apprentice Shaman in Orgrimmar years ago. His skin looked like leather, his face rough and weathered through years and years of toil and hardship. His tusks were removed, ripped out from their place in his mouth -- a common torture tactic to Orcs. As he set down wood for the campfire, Nazkura saw his hands -- calloused from years of working with them. 

She judged him to be as old as Saurfang or Nahmentok or even older than that; he moved slowly, and each step he took looked like it needed to be deliberate. Nazkura put two-and-two together. “You killed the Deathstalkers,” she said to him, the long silence abated. “You’re a Shaman, then?”

“What is it you’re doing wandering alone in the forest? There’s a war going on.” He ignored her question and her observation completely, adding a log to the fire and stoking it with a few snaps of his fingers. “Did you come to hunt me?”

This was some sort of game, Nazkura thought; she struggled against her bindings, snapping her fingers so that she might create a flame to burn them awake, but when she called out to Brother Fire, he did not answer her. As the fire snapped and crackled in front of her despite her attempts, she chose to play the old Orc’s game.

“You’re some sort of pariah, old one. You must be some sort of criminal if you have Deathstalkers on your trail. Murder some children?” She watched his expression as she spoke, trying to pinpoint a nerve of some kind. “That’s all the old ones are good for. Killing innocent children.”

There was a twitch in his face; she saw some emotion come from him. She continued: “I suspect you’re just being hunted to cover something up in Sylvanas’ government. Saurfang orders you to murder a few Horde operatives, kill a few children to set up a just cause, then you’re a loose end.”

“Do not presume I served or ever would serve the witch,” he snarled out. He glared for a long moment, his eyes moving between her face and the tattoos on her shoulders. “You’re a Darkwolf; I’ve seen tattoos like that before.” He huffed lightly, picking up a stick to poke at the fire. “Didn’t like the Orc who bore last bore them.”

That was surprising to Nazkura; she took a risk. “You’re talking about Kravak the Blackblood?” Saying the wrong name might elicit a better response -- she knew he was talking about Nahmentok, her grandfather. 

“No. A Dark Shaman; Nahmentok.” He spits the name out with a glob of mucus, coughing just afterward. “Hated his stinking, rotting tusks since he took mine when I was young,” he said, motioning to his mouth. “I was among the Shaman they chose to become a Warlock, and Nahmentok administered the… training.” He shuddered at the thought of it. “My name is Rhakra.”

As Rhakra opened up about his hatred of Nahmentok and even gave his name, Nazkura softened. “Naz,” she said simply. She did not trust him completely, not yet. “Nahmentok was -- is my grandfather. I hate him just as much as you do.” She spits out his name just as he did, hoping that their shared hatred much gain far more trust. “I led the Darkwolves to fight his cult of fanatics. His purpose was… unclear.”

Rhakra moved a hand across his face. “Did he give you those, then?” 

He spoke about the claw scars on her face -- a long-standing visage gained just before the Horde’s Civil War. “Yes,” she said, looking away. “I am not ashamed of them, but rather of my failure in not killing Nahmentok then.” She looked back at Rhakra. “He turned my older brothers against me; made me fight them. When I challenged him for clan leadership, he defeated me, but I ran.”

A considered rumble came from Rhakra’s throat, his hand scratching at his chin as he took in all he heard. “It does not help that you were weakened beforehand,” he said, motioning to his hip. “I saw your scars completely; that one on your hip and the one on your face were gained at the same time.” He stood up, grabbing a knife.

She panicked; she struggled against her bonds but tried to hide her alarm as he approached her with the knife. She was utterly helpless. “I am not ashamed of running. I achieved victory in the end.”

He paused, staring down at her. “Then you killed him?”

“...No. He still yet lives,” Nazkura said after a moment. “But his cult is dismantled; his powers have waned significantly. He is nothing now.”

Rhakra knelt at her side, and Nazkura prepared for the worst; he brought the knife down on her bindings. “I am in the Darkshore to fight against the Banshee Witch’s Horde,” he said, completely freeing her. “My brethren and I all are -- though I am the only one left. We received advance notice that there was to be a campaign against the Night Elves; thus, we came north from our hideouts in Dustwallow… but we were constantly ambushed by the Sentinels as we were setting up in these caves,” he said, shaking his head -- his voice was solemn.

“Most were killed; a dozen were cut down, and a score was later captured by Saurfang’s great warhost. Their fates now are… unknown.” He turned away from Nazkura, moving back to his seat. “I am hunted now. Those Deathstalkers aren’t the first -- no, they’re simply the boldest. The strongest of Sylvanas’ hunters is a Troll called Jen’do. He’s a Shadow Hunter, but his allegiance is to a group called the Ashwalkers.”

Nazkura took in all of what he told her. “Ashwalkers?” The name was familiar to her, but she couldn’t place it. Her mind was still addled from the blow and the grief she had felt over the last week.

“It is a fanatical fire cult, like the Twilight’s Hammer, though they don’t worship the Old Gods. No… they pervert the flames and use them to commit cruel acts of slaughter in the name of the Horde.” He snarled again -- Nazkura figured that Rhakra’s enemies were innumerable.

“Then we’re of the same mind, Rhakra. I… was part of the great warhost but abandoned the campaign when the Horde gleefully took part in the slaughter of innocents. One of my warriors fled with me, but he was cut down to allow me to escape.” Nazkura’s face contorted for a moment in grief, her heart dropping at Gro’kar’s sacrifice. “I know not what I will do now.”

Rhakra allowed for a long silence between them, feeling the heartache that Nazkura felt. He considered her for a long moment. “Help me in my war, then. My brethren can’t have been killed yet -- I suspect they’re being interned for the nonce. It would give you a chance to avenge your warrior and your honor.”

***

“The Horde plan to set up war camps in Darkshore,” Rhakra explained to Nazkura as they walked through the cave system under the mountain. “I know not their purpose beyond occupation if there is one at all. But the Elves have been taken out of the war, for the most part.” He held a torch to light their way. “Our goal was to enact a guerilla campaign against them using these elaborate tunnels.”

Nazkura committed the tunnels to memory, holding the crude map that Rhakra had put on a dried piece of leather. She had primarily been exploring the tunnels on her own for the last week since she agreed to join Rhakra’s campaign, but today he decided to lead her on one that would bring them all the way to the north. “I heard the Shatterspear made use of these tunnels, but never seen them before.”

“Shatterspear and Sentinels,” Rhakra grunted in response. “The Elves know these tunnels like the back of their hands, though I’ve collapsed many of them, created new ones…” he said, trailing off for a moment. “It was bad scouting; we were overconfident. Had we taken our time to properly scout these tunnels and then plan out our attacks, well… perhaps my brethren would still be here with me.”

She put a hand on Rhakra’s shoulder. “Worry not, Rhakra; if your brethren still live, we’ll free them. We’ll take this fight to the Horde.” His vigor seemed to return to him with her hopeful words -- they finished the tour a few hours later, returning to where they made their base of operations.

Rhakra gave Nazkura some armor to replace hers -- it had previously been a comrade’s, but she would no longer be needing it. The leather was worn, but it was of durable make. She scrutinized it, recognizing it that it was Bleeding Hollow in nature. “Is this from Draenor?” She said, looking up to him while he prepared some concoction. “From the… other one, I mean.”

He nodded, mashing a paste with a mortar and pestle. “It is,” he responded to Nazkura. “Some of those Orcs came into Azeroth following the Iron Horde’s defeat and against when the Legion took control of it.” He inspected his work and found it satisfactory. He wiped the paste into a small jar and handed it to Nazkura. “Here. A salve -- if you get wounded.”

“Wounded? I intend to use Far Sight to scout out the area. There is no risk of being seen then.” She had already taken out some incense to do such a spell. Rhakra didn’t respond to her, though looked wary of the intention. He kept the salve nearby, placing it while he prepared other supplies.

Nazkura found a quiet place away from Rhakra. She placed the incense between some rocks to prop them up and sat cross-legged in front of it. She took slow, deep breaths as she rubbed her fingers together on the ends of the incense, calling Brother Fire to light them. After several minutes, however, a frustrated Nazkura took out matches -- Brother Fire was not responding to her. 

Doubt seeded within her mind. Brother Fire was her patron spirit; the elemental that commonly came to her was called Ignis. Even under the strain of the Cataclysm, she could hear his whisper to her. So why did he not come to her now?

Regardless, she managed to find some matches in the supplies and lit the incense accordingly. She repositioned herself, placing her hands palm-up upon her knees and closed her eyes. She took long, deep breaths and allowed the pungent smoke to fill her nostrils and lungs. She cleared her mind, emptying it of all thoughts, and focused on everything around her.

She heard the drips of the moist stalactites on the ceiling of the cave, she felt the cool breeze moving through it. She listened to the bats gently snoozing overheard, the little mice rummaging through the cracks of the cave. She reached out further, anchoring her focus on the cave. Once anchored, she called out to Brother Earth.  _ Brother, I request your aid. Show me what has happened to the Darkshore. _

Nothing; there was no response from Brother Earth. Grine the Unbreakable was a temperamental spirit, but it was unlike him not to respond with a firm no if he decided not to help. With no response, she reached out to Sister Air.  _ Flurris, sister, I need your help just as before. Show me my enemies. _

She did not respond, but she did feel a more significant presence where she was. Nazkura felt strange -- with no body of water nearby, she could not call upon Sister Water, Aquila, and Brother Fire was not responding to her at all. Did the Sibling Spirits abandon Nazkura?

She stopped the spell, coming to. She felt all her doubt and anxiety return to her tenfold; she was shaken to her very core. _Have I lost my ability to call upon the Siblings? Have I disgraced myself more than I think?_ These thoughts and thoughts like them raced through her mind. _How is Rhakra performing these extraordinary feats of shamanism?_ _A former warlock…_ She stood, taking the incense with her. Walking back, her eyes were moist with coming tears. She held back, however.

“Rhakra,” she called out, sitting by the fire. “The spirits… they are absent. I cannot feel them.” She tossed the incense near her packs, folding her knees into her chest. She had never felt so abandoned before -- even when facing her clan in the Civil War. Everything that she was was cast into doubt.

Rhakra paused what he was doing and scratched his neck. He looked pensive, thinking about possible scenarios. “The spirits of this land are ancient -- the Elves’ spirits, I mean. Combined with the Twilight cult’s meddling, the blighting of the Forsaken, the war… all is in flux.” He turned to her, sitting. “Your strength has waned. You need a stronger connection to the Siblings.”

“That requires far more training than I possess,” she admitted, staring into the fire. “Rituals and totems and… so much more.”

“I… know of a ritual that can help. The boon will be temporary; a few months long at best. In that time, we can improve your training while we wait for the Horde to settle here for the Alliance to counter-attack.” He nodded, putting away his mortar and pestle. “The ritual will take weeks to prepare, however. You’ll have to scout physically.”

Nazkura resigned herself to such a fate; she nodded meekly in response. She turned towards her padded leathers, laying down and covering herself with a blanket. She had been cowed completely, drawing into the depths of despair.

***

Velariene’s Coterie had taken disastrous losses hunting down the Darkwolves. Gro’kar had killed a number of her Coterie and the outriders that bolstered her forces. Though she hadn’t genuinely intended to spare the leftover outriders if they had killed Gro’kar, she still wanted them to kill him.  _ Thus is the way of relying on the living. _

Despite her losses, she received new orders in the Darkshore. Not only was she to find the Darkwolf renegade, but also to hunt down the Night Elves and Gilneans that remained in the forest and to hunt down another Orc renegade. To do this, she was given the best of the Deathstalkers on Kalimdor, increasing her Coterie to a dozen.

She had enough soldiers and influence now to pick a lieutenant as well. She chose Graz na Graz, a Deathstalker Captain who cut his teeth against the Scarlet Crusade. There was a rumor that he had been a part of the Royal Apothecary Society’s experimentations to enhance his abilities -- Putress loved using enhanced warriors to test his Blight. 

She overlooked them now at the main Horde war camp near Lor’danel; Supplies and soldiers going in and out of the camp and the Darkshore with war and prisoner camps being set up everywhere to counter the new threats that were popping up. “Are they prepared, Captain Graz?”

Graz only nodded -- any attempt to speak resulted in a disgusting shower of ichor. Graz had lost his jaw prosecuting the Forsaken’s war against the Scarlet Crusade -- his long, slippery always stuck out and drooped under his skull. 

“Line them up; I wish to inspect them.”

Captain Graz moved at his commander’s bidding, and Velariene waited while he assembled them. As she waited, she smelled a foul weed being burned behind her and heard the stomping of hooves on the ground. She turned, seeing a Troll Shadow Hunter, clad in his horrid Trollish regalia of wood, leather, and chainmail all staring at her smoking a pipe. Just behind him, a large black-furred Tauren with a smattering of ash-white warpaint on his face. 

“Greetings, mon,” he said, bowing -- not allowing the embers of his pipe to fall to the ground. “I be Jen’do. General said ya be assigned ta me quarry.” Velariene knew this Troll well -- especially his surcoat. She had read the reports of the Ashwalkers and their independent -- but sanctioned -- campaign against Garrosh’s loyalists over the past few years.

“I am,” she said, turning away. She detested how Trolls looked; how Tauren smelled. The living was an insult to her. “But this is a stealth operation. You will not be needed.”

Jen’do snorted, taking the pipe out of his mouth. He upturned the pipe, slapping the bowl of it against his palm. “Ah, yes, but ya be seein’ dis,” he said as Honwah offered her a piece of parchment. Velariene read it while Jen’do continued. “Honwah an’ me be authorized ta join ya cohort; even be takin’ control o’ it, if needin’ be.”

Velariene gripped the parchment tightly -- frustration rising. She pushed the orders back into Honwah’s hand. “I will not have you taking my command. This is my mission for the Dark Lady.”

“Ah, ah, yes, it be,” he said, seemingly relenting. “It be your glory dat we be earnin’ so long as me quarry is bein’ taken by us back ta Stonetalon.” He motioned to Honwah. “...If dat be not so fine, I can be lettin’ da Hurricane o’ Kalimdor convince ya.”

Honwah stepped forward, but Velariene held up a hand. “I shall not question the orders of your Orcish general,” she seethed, keeping her glaring gaze out on her soldiers. “But you will follow my orders… and then you can have your target.”

Jen’do slapped the pipe against his hand a few more times. “Good, good, ah, ah good. Jus’ be tellin’ me when we be leavin’. Oh… an’ Honwah be silent as da a still air. Be trustin’ me!” He said, cackling as the two began to walk away without being dismissed.  _ Already that monstrosity dares undermine my authority, _ she thought to herself.  _ Bah! _

_ I will have my glory. I will rise above this wretched place… _ Velariene moved to inspect her Coterie. Over the next few weeks they would train together -- and then prosecute a new campaign in the Darkshore.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also on FanFiction.net and Tumblr!  
> https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13470103/4/The-Secret-War  
> https://nazkura.tumblr.com/post/190131321970/secret-war-chapter-3

It had been a month since Nazkura’s failed attempt at using Far Sight within the cave. She had mixed success ever since -- without the spirits, she could just barely reach out over a short distance around her; it enhanced her capabilities as a scout, but it still bared her soul. She could not fathom why it was now that the Siblings resisted; her connection seemed stronger outside of the cave, away from Rhakra, but even then, they only managed but whispers at the best of times.

She resigned to scouting physically outside of the cave system. There were some spells and calls that she knew that did not rely so heavily on the spirits, but Nazkura knew that if she pushed too hard on using them that she might offend the Siblings even more than she already had. Ghost Wolf, Ancestral Imbuement, Guidance -- she also knew some voodoo spells learned from her Troll brethren; Hex being chief and most prominent among them.

Moving through the forest in the form of a Ghost Wolf was second nature to her by now; without Eyota, it was the quickest and most silent way to travel. She could move up the Darkshore within a day and go down it just as quickly. She took two weeks to scout the Horde positions.

They had set themselves truly to the task of occupation in the two months since the War of Thorns. Although the Night Elves and Gilneans were using guerilla warfare to wage war since then, they were not as effective as the concerted effort to occupy the land. Nazkura identified three types of camps being created and utilized:

War Camps were chief among them -- they were many, and they had all races of the Horde involved in their creation and defense. Their purpose was point fortification and power projection over a small region. They were positioned every few kilometers at crucial points where defenses might best be: crossroads, hills, cliffs, et cetera. They seemed to align in such a way that supplies could be safely moved through them.

The strength of each War Camp varied: the smallest of the camps had about two dozen soldiers stationed within, six of which were mobile outriders of some sort. Orcs with their wargs seemed to be the most favored of these outriders, though she saw Dreadguard and Blood Knights among them as well. Each War Camp was commanded by at least a Blood Guard with a Stone Guard acting as a second-in-command. This organization seemed to be somewhat standard for defenses of crossroads and other such points. 

A Prison Camp was the second type of compound that the Horde was employing in the Darkshore and at least the edges of Ashenvale. She only identified three such camps: one in the south, center, and north part of the Darkshore. The Prison Camps were guarded by a mostly Forsaken force and commanded by a Centurion. Each had a varying level of guards, most of which was comprised of, at minimum, three dozen soldiers. They were solidly focused on defense, and rarely did they go out for more than a patrol around the compounds.

The last type of camp that Nazkura could identify was what she coined as the ‘Corpse Camp.’ There was one that she could find, and its forces there were entirely comprised of the Forsaken elite: Dreadguard, Deathstalkers, Blightguard, and all their associated maleficent experimentations. She didn’t know who commanded at the Camp, but she suspected as high as a Commander, personally appointed by Sylvanas herself, was here somewhere within. Wagons of corpses, both Horde and Alliance, were carted here daily.

Satisfied with her scouting thus far, she began to move back towards the cave complex. Nazkura was unsure exactly how Rhakra and her were going to assail any of these defenses. Together they could perhaps take on a dozen regular troops, but that was only at their peak strength; the smallest of the Prison Camps had more than three dozen soldiers.

As these thoughts and doubts raced through her mind, she felt the wind shift and an arrow whizz by her. She didn’t stop but looked back briefly to discern whether it was Night Elven or Forsaken. When she saw the wood and the crude makes it was only one conclusion: Velariene is here.

She redoubled her efforts to sprint, hoping to outrun her Coterie pursuers on foot. A Deathstalker appeared out of nowhere in front of her; however, she quickly shifted back into her true form. She rolled out of it, unsheathing an ax and attacking the one in front of her.

The Deathstalker was quick and wielded two daggers, but his speed was no match for her strength. She moved out of the way, sweeping her feet backward each time he advanced before suddenly bursting through him, shoulder-checking and burying her ax into his side. He groaned out, cursing as she felt his swipe at some of the stronger parts of her armor. She pushed him off, sending him several meters away from her.

She checked the cut to her armor; no blood, no pain -- the durable armor did its work well. She unsheathed her second ax, spinning them in a flourish to intimidate her wounded opponent. She began to charge forward when she stopped short of another arrow flying her way. 

The Deathstalker with the bow appeared from the trees, nocking another arrow in his bow. A third and final Deathstalker appeared from the trees, wielding a wicked sword and dagger. Nazkura gave him a quick look; her face distorted with disgust as she saw his jaw was missing, his tongue lolling out as he slobbered ichor over the ground.

Turning to face all three of her attackers, her instincts told her to fight defensively, but her mind told her to attack. She felt the heat of her blood beginning to rise, and she struggled to keep doubt from coming into her mind; she needed to be sharpened. There was an eerie moment of stillness between the three before the bowman loosed his arrow.

All at once, the Deathstalkers attacked. Nazkura barely deflected the arrow with the broad side of her ax, but the disgusting Deathstalker leading them was on her a second later. So fast! She thought to herself, trying to create space. His attacks were blazingly quick, and although she only managed to barely parry and block them, she found herself giving ground to his great strength; she was underestimating this Forsaken severely.

She felt a blow into her side; the first wounded Deathstalker had come up behind her as she had been occupied with the leader. She then felt an arrow hit her shoulder -- everything was happening at once. She pleaded out to the spirits, desperate for their attention and aid, but none came. She was alone.

With no reprieve in sight, she managed to make a critical reflection of the flurry of blows she was receiving, sending the strongest Deathstalker backward a few meters. She reached out, speaking a crude curse at the bowman Deathstalker; his form shifted into a harmless frog, dropping his bow in the process. She pivoted, knowing that she only had a few minutes before the curse would wear off.

She brought her ax down on the wounded Deathstalker, though her blow was deflected. She moved again, throwing her weight behind each attack; they were slow and cumbersome compared to the other two, but she could hear their bones creaking with each assault. As her Orcish fury began to take over, she finally managed to break through her prey’s defenses: she snapped his arm, ripping it off his body, and bringing her ax down where his neck and shoulder met. 

The final Deathstalker had paused -- his bowman was hexed, his dagger-wielding companion was critically wounded… thus he chose to break his assault. Nazkura growled, staring him down; she knew she could not defeat this Forsaken, not without her shamanistic power. This Deathstalker was too fast and had unnatural strength. Instead, she chose to flee -- beginning a full sprint south. She sheathed her axes and shifted forms.

She took several long paths back to the cave complex and was sure she wasn’t followed -- it was clear that the Deathstalker was a captain of some sort and thus was cautious.  _ Perhaps he wasn’t related to Velariene’s Coterie, _ Nazkura thought as she entered the cave, shifting back to her true form.  _ It was just a coincidence -- a patrol; nothing more. _

Her breathing was labored by the time she reached their camp. She sat, beginning to take off her leather armor when Rhakra appeared beside her with bandages, salve, and water. Wordlessly, he gripped the arrow and mercilessly pulled it out of her -- the barbed arrowhead causing far more damage to her flesh than it did going in.

“I would not wish to see the corpses you left behind,” he joked, his voice low and gruff. He helped Nazkura take off her chest piece and dribbled water over the wound, cleaning it. He mumbled words of power, and Nazkura felt Sister Water’s healing soothe the pain and cleanse the wound of toxins.

“I… didn’t leave any behind; I was not strong enough to kill any of them.” She balled a fist, grunting in pain as Rhakra applied the salve to the wound and began to bandage it. “Not through lack of trying, but… I already cannot communicate with the spirits, and my skills as a warrior lack just as much. If I were at my peak strength…” she trailed off, lowering her head.

Rhakra did not respond for a long few moments; he could read the desperation on her face. “You are facing a crisis of identity and soul, Naz,” he said, finishing the tight bandages to her frame. He checked on the other wounds and began the same process -- cleaning, salve, bandage. “Both of which I have seen before. You were on solid ground before, your goals and cause clear -- loyalty to a vision of the Horde that might have once been true. But that vision is shattered; Thrall is gone. Vol’jin is gone. Saurfang is a liar.” He spits out each name with some amount of venom. He continued:

“Naz Darkwolf of the Horde is dying,” he said to her, looking into her eyes. He put an aged finger underneath her chin, tipping her head up. “She is in critical condition. She must die for you to remake yourself.”

For the first time in a long time did Nazkura have a mentor she trusted -- only knowing this Orc for two months and yet he shared with her wisdom that she needed unabated. Tears began to stream down her face, her arms wrapping around Rhakra’s frame and her head buried into his shoulder.  _ I am broken, _ she thought to herself.  _ Where once I was strong, now I am… nothing. I must become something else.  _

Even now, if Gro’kar or Drem’lok had seen her, they might not recognize her. She had led soldiers into battle, stayed strong and fierce in the face of all odds, confronted her clan’s demons without hesitation or breaking at seeing her ancestors long dead. She was the caricature of the Horde warrior-shaman… and now she was nothing.

But she was to become something again; Rhakra left that spark of resoluteness within her. His ritual would change her from nothing… to something greater than before.

***

It would be a week before Nazkura could undertake the ritual -- her wounds were too severe to even attempt it. Rhakra had been preparing the chamber in which the ceremony was to be conducted while also allowing for time to mend Nazkura’s wounds. Upon the day after Nazkura returned from scouting, they found that the poison the Deathstalkers used was far more potent than they realized.

Unfortunately for Nazkura, this left her alone for most of the day -- laying down on padded furs, waiting for the inevitable time to come. Rhakra never seemed to sleep, wholly restless and brimming with energy for such an old Orc.  _ Was he brewing potions that kept him awake? _ She wondered to herself.  _ Is all this going to be worth it in the end? _

Nazkura wasn’t even sure she should go through with what Rhakra intended. Perhaps, she thought, that the Earthen Ring might have a more significant remedy that would not drain neither Rhakra nor herself. Maybe she truly should simply turn herself into the Horde and prevent anything catastrophic from happening. Even the Alliance has Shaman -- great Nubundo had given Nazkura wise advice before. Perhaps she --

“It is time,” Rhakra said, stepping out of the shadows. He placed some threadbare robes -- some form of neophyte’s robe -- in front of her. “Put these on and then follow me.”

Nazkura did as she bid, but her heart screamed at her to turn and flee. She removed the bandages, her clothing, and put on the neophyte’s robes -- simple clothing that looked as old and worn as Rhakra. As she stepped forward, she could hear her heart thumping loudly with every step she took alongside Rhakra.

They moved together into a chamber with a big, swirling whirlpool. It looked unnaturally deep -- as if created within the last few weeks by Rhakra himself. Nazkura turned to Rhakra, seeking his guidance. He took out a potion, handing her the vial after uncorking it.

“This ritual might kill you,” he admitted after she took the potion. “That will assuage your mind; it will remove all doubt from you. Your mind must be completely empty before going into the water… otherwise, I cannot save you.”

Nazkura looked at the potion; the green viscous liquid stared back at her. “How many times have you performed this ritual?” She asked, not yet drinking from it.

“Three times,” he responded. “To my great shame, only one perished from this.” He took a step forward, motioning to the center of the whirlpool. “You will swim there; it is where all four spirits meet. Brother Fire heats Sister Water, Brother Earth guides her down, and Sister Air maintains a constant flow around you. They will all enter your body and judge you.” He turned back to her. “If you are found wanting, they will kill you.”

She stared out over the water for a long moment in silence. Her mind raced, overturning thought after thought before she finally drank the potion in its entirety. It was a greasy fluid -- left a film in her mouth. She began to step into the water, and already she could feel its heat. She could feel each of the spirits battering her over and over.

There was a point where her feet could no longer touch the bottom, and she began to swim. It was tough; the whirlpool allowed for no error. She managed to reach the middle, and then she merely… let go.

She went under, and water entered her lungs. She felt a cacophony of elemental energies exude around her. There were four presences within that seemingly attacked her every being, finding every physical weak spot she had. She cried out in pain, the agony wracking her mind. She opened her eyes, becoming bloodshot as she attempted to weather their attacks. She began to feel her ancestors nearby, began to even see the face of her long-dead father and brothers and mother. 

As the darkness took her, she thought she had died.

“Awaken,” she heard a voice say. It was gruff, distant, and quiet; she was not sure whose it was. “Awaken!” She heard it shout. After what seemed like hours, she finally opened her eyes, her crimson gaze falling upon Rhakra. She was sopping wet, she coughed up water and mucus and even some blood. She sat up slowly, taking Rhakra’s hand. “Easy,” he said. “How do you feel?”

Her mind was still reeling from the ritual. She looked to where the whirlpool was, and it was gone. There wasn’t even a space in which there could have been that large of a whirlpool, none which she could swim to the middle and lose herself to kilometers and kilometers of water.

“Naz,” he said. “Focus. Do you feel different?”

A minute later, and her mind began to sharpen. Her heartbeat had slowed, her breathing regulated, and her wounds were merely scars now. Her mind was completely clear… she did feel different. She raised a wet, moist hand and called out to Brother Fire; while she did not hear his voice, she felt his presence -- then saw his gift. Her hand turned into a wild, blazing fire, turning colors that she did not know she could do. 

The gift from Brother Fire felt different; she was unsure of how to explain it. She had always had her best connection to Brother Fire; thus, she knew his presence when he granted his gift to her. This… didn’t feel like him. “This power…” she said, looking to Rhakra. “Brother Fire feels different.”

Rhakra shook his head. “That is your power,” he said to her. “That is your new connection with them. They have granted you into their most sacred paths into their power… and now it is yours.” He helped her stand up. “You are closer to them now than any shaman has ever been; a more powerful shaman than the Earthen Ring could ever ask for.” He paused for a moment. “Are you ready for our war, Naz?”

Nazkura closed her fist. “Not Naz,” she said, looking to Rhakra. Her spirit lifted, her soul burst with feeling and overflowed with confidence. “Shrike. Shrike is ready for war.”


End file.
